Coming Up Roses
by Cathartes
Summary: Lisbon just can't let him brood in peace.
1. Red Bull and Vodka

Lisbon was mothering him again.

Oh, she went about it pretty subtly – for her, at least – but he didn't think it was just a coincidence that his favorite tea was suddenly stocked up in the break room, or that the blueberry muffins she knew he liked were sitting out on the counter.

It wasn't a coincidence that whenever he rubbed his forehead to stave off another headache, it was her knee that nudged him, wordlessly offering her bottle of aspirin.

Lisbon, the queen of skipping lunch, was suddenly and pointedly taking carry-out orders _for the whole office_, one for Cho, two for Rigsby, and Jane, of course, did he want the pastrami or the tuna salad? Pushing a fruit smoothie into his hands without waiting for him to politely decline. _Wasn't sure what you wanted but here's strawberry_, his favorite, of course. And then she was gone, ducking out of sight with her cell phone clamped to her ear, not waiting around for thanks.

He was pretty sure she'd burned through her whole paycheck on team lunches, but somehow he couldn't seem to dodge her. It was kind of annoying.

More ominously, his Fortress of Solitude in the CBI attic had clearly been invaded. The first day it was the light, mysteriously unreactive when he flipped the switch. Squinting up into the gloom, he could see the fixture was shattered – as if someone had taken it out with a well-aimed piece of pea gravel. He sat up there all day anyway, feeling suitably brooding and gloomy, but when the sun set he did start to feel a little stupid.

It was shortly after that that he started noticing a faint, obnoxious smell, impossible to trace at first until he finally found the dead mouse in the baseboards. Looked like something she might, perhaps, have collected from that mousetrap in her office.

To be fair, he had given her the idea.

The next day it was crickets, two of them, chirping from some hidden corner and he doesn't even want to _know_ how she got them in here.

"Heading up to the Batcave?" asked Rigsby innocently, when he came into work the next morning. Lisbon was listening in, and her expression clearly communicated some threat of future violence.

"No," said Jane meekly. "Maybe I'll just take a nap down here on the couch."

Their case at the time was a missing child, a ten-year old boy who disappeared on a class trip to the museum. After three days they had no leads and Jane was in the wrong place at the wrong time when the kid's father needed someone to vent on. He was shaking, furious, bewildered, screaming at Jane to _do something, my God, anything! _And Jane was suddenly, helplessly out of his depth - it was all too much, his own old grief welling up, those half-remembered feelings of loss.

And suddenly there was Lisbon, prodding him out of the way, talking too loud, breaking the spell. Inserting herself like some kind of shield, drawing all of that anger and anguish towards herself and away from Jane.

Yup, it was really getting annoying.

A few days later they did end up finding that missing boy, but not alive.

That night Jane headed straight for the nearest bar, intent on drinking the memory clear out of his head. And what do you know, there was Lisbon's little figure climbing up next to him, hoisting herself with some difficulty onto the high barstool and settling like a ruffled bird on her perch.

"The world is not made for short people," she complained. "I'll take one of those – whatever that is he's drinking." The bartender nodded. "Heck, bring us each another."

"I don't need your help getting drunk."

"I finally got up here, I'm not getting down until I get my money's worth," she said. "You don't have to talk, let's just drink."

He felt kind of bad, knowing that she worried about her alcohol consumption. "Look, I appreciate what you're trying – "

"No talking," Lisbon cut him off. She stirred her glass with a straw and made a face. "This stuff is gross. This is something you'd drink at a frat party."

"It keeps you awake," said Jane. Which kept you from having to dream.

"Uppers and downers," said Lisbon, shaking her head. "Still tastes like piss." She caught the bartender's eye and ordered, "Scotch. And one for my friend."

"I don't – " It was set down in front of him. Jane shrugged. They drank.

"Bosco liked scotch," said Lisbon, out of nowhere. Jane froze, because she never, ever talked about Bosco, voluntarily.

"I'm sorry, Lisbon."

She waved this aside. "I was thinking. If you had never come to the CBI, Bosco would still have been on the Red John case," she said. "I'd still be on the case, even if I'd never met you. I would still be in danger, and everything would be the same."

This was like some messed-up, backwards version of _It's a Wonderful Life. _"Lisbon . . . "

"Everything would be the same," she insisted, "except now we have a better chance of catching him. You don't - you don't make things worse, Jane. You make things better."

Jane was quiet. He turned his glass around and around in his hand, leaving a circle of water on the polished wood of the bar. "You miss him."

"Yes, I do. And I miss you, too."

"I'm here, Lisbon," said Jane, gently. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." She pushed her empty glass away and looked doubtfully at the distance to the floor. "Then I'm going home. But I'll see you bright and early tomorrow."

Jane offered her a hand to help, and after a moment's thought, she took it and slid down. "Goodnight, Jane."

"Goodnight."

Yeah, it was really annoying how she kept doing that.

"See you tomorrow."


	2. The Red Baron

_As Heard from Outside the Door of the CBI Attic:_

_._

Jane.

Hey, Jane.

_Jane!_ Wake up! It's 11:00 in the morning, there's _no _reason for you to be asleep right now. Get up. I mean it. Jane!

***WHACK***

Well, if you didn't want me to whack you with a file folder, maybe you shouldn't pretend you can't hear me, huh? You're lucky it wasn't my fist. Now get downstairs, I'm sending you out with Cho to re-interview the parents on the Menedez thing. Something doesn't smell right.

Swear to God, Jane, if you go back to sleep I'm going to dip your hand in warm water, like it's third grade all over again. NOW, Jane! Go!

Yeah, that's right, such a slave driver. Cry me a river.

**(...)**

"Jane, what the hell did you say t- _**agh!**__ What the hell is – _okay_, _is that an aeroplane? Woah, that. That's just not what I was expecting when I walked in here.

_No!_ Jane don't – don't get it near me, it's gonna get stuck in my hair! _Don't_, Jane, I'm serious!

Okay, okay, I'm going, I'm, gonna make a strategic retreat. But you know what? As soon as I get my surface-to-air missile system online, I'm gonna be _right back up here_. "

**SLAM.**

(quietly): Huh. That thing was actually kind of cool ...

**(...)**

Jane, _WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY TO HIGHTOWER?_

Can you like WARN me when you're going to pull this kind of stuff so I can _TAKE A VACATION DAY_?

Uh-uh, no way, you'd better not be laughing. If you are laughing I – I don't even know, okay? I'm gonna – I'm gonna – jeez, there's nothing else to freaking threaten you with, I've already used everything!

I'm going home, you deal with this crap. Solve the case while I'm gone. You know you've already figured it out.

Jerk.

**(...)**

Alright. So. Are those uh flowers from you? They'd kind of better be, because otherwise I've got some kind of creepy stalker who can get into my bedroom.

Real statement you're making there, by the way.

But they're, uh, nice. Thanks. I guess.

Or whatever.

You're still a jerk, though.

**(...)**

Jane you can't just avoid me forever, eventually you're going to have to write an apology to – oh. Uh. Oh jeez. I'm sorry, would you like a, uh, a moment? I'll just come b – maybe I should just come back later?

Or do you, you want me to get you anything? Tissues?

Uh, tea, you want tea?

No. Why don't I just – uh – I'm gonna … I should go.

But, uh, listen. I'm here, if you wanted to. Mm. Talk. Which you never do.

Yeah.

But, if you ever, you know, did, theoretically, then you know I, ah, would.

Okay?

Yeah I'm not – uh, I'm not especially good at this kind of. Ah-hem. Thing. You may have noticed. Like that, that time with Van Pelt in the elevator. God, that was awful. But, uh, anyway -

What was my point?

Yeah, with the – talking. Right. So if you ever, well, you've, you've got my number.

I'm just going to be out – shooting something.

Uh, right.

Bye.

**(...)**

Jane, are you in here? Jane? Knock knock. It's me, Lisbon. Jane? Okay, I'm coming in … Okay, that's weird. Not in the batcave. Where the heck did he go?

Boss?

Van Pelt, do you know where Jane is? I want him at the briefing on the Heines case. I'm not repeating myself in twenty minutes just so he can squeeze in some extra brooding time ...

Uh, yeah, boss, that's what I was coming to tell you. We're all downstairs, waiting for you. Jane too.

Oh. Huh. Well then, lead the way.

Yes Boss.

Quietly: Man, he is _such a jerk_.


	3. Red Red Rose

Sometimes Jane really does hate her.

"Jane! Get down!"

Most of the time he's able to maintain a nice placid distance from them, the mere mortals, rushing about like ants around him. Always with the neat little boxes and the neat, straight lines. They really are such _marks_. They just don't understand how much easier things could be if they stopped worrying about _protocol _and _procedure._

"_Jane!_"

And alright, he does frequently end up rooting for them, in spite of himself. They try so hard, they really _deserve_ to win every once in a while. And yes, he does find that he – admires her. The way she puts herself, all 105 pounds of her, squarely between trouble and whatever it is she's trying to protect. Like some kind of storybook knight on a black horse. And maybe he has some admiration for her frail, thin faith: in him, in humanity, in herself. Like a tiny little candle, just barely enough to warm himself by.

Bullets hammer into the wall behind him, sending pieces of the brick flying. _"Down, Jane!"_

Occasionally – the worst times – he feels genuine affection for her; for herself, as a woman. It's a fleeting feeling, perhaps, but it's real. It's her own fault, the way she lets him see little pieces of herself, her sly little one-liners or her secret rebellions, and he knows they are precious and rare. And maybe on bad days, when he sees her face drawn and tired from the cases they work, he wants – to take her away, put her someplace safe. Someplace nobody could ever come and hurt her. It's ridiculous, he knows. He's too old to believe in fairy tales of the Princess in the Tower.

_"Jane!"_

But sometimes he really does hate her.

The way she just shuts down all of her questions, all her bad feelings, and presses stupidly, slavishly forward. They're so stupid, all of them, they don't even realize what they're fighting against has already won. They're really just sweeping up afterwards.

Or her terrible eagerness, when they have a suspect on the ropes – they're like a pack of dogs, all of them, slavering after the chase. And she can be so _idiotic_, like she doesn't even care if she gets killed, just plunges right on in. Like she doesn't even understand that she's _better_ than other people, _more important_ than them. She's _such a mark._

"CBI! Drop your weapon!"

And there she is, right on cue, sliding between him and the man with the gun, and just as quickly she's firing, three shots in a tight, tidy cluster. The man's chest blossoms into a grotesque red rose, but as he falls Lisbon's body, still in the rigid shooting stance, blocks Jane's view.

"Are you alright?" she asks, without turning around.

"Fine," says Jane, "I'm fine."

He probably means it. But he still inches forward to press against her legs, panting.

"Thanks," he says.


	4. Pink Camellias

"Lisbon? Are you still here? It's getting pretty late, you know."

No answer, but he knew she was in there.

"You've been working all day, my dear. Don't you think it's time to take a break?"

"Later, Jane," called Lisbon, her voice gentle.

"Come now, one little cup of tea."

Meyers was watching the door with an interest that made Lisbon's heart clench. "That's him, that blond man?" he said. "I remember him."

"He has nothing to do with this," said Lisbon.

"Who are you talking to?" asked Jane. They heard the rattle of the doorknob.

"I'm on a conference call," Lisbon said. "Give me twenty minutes and we'll go out for coffee."

"Let him in," said Meyers.

"No," said Lisbon.

Meyers raised the gun. "I said let him in."

The negotiator types would tell you never to antagonize a gunman, but to Lisbon some things were black and white. She protected her team first, always. "I can't do that," she said.

It was Mr. Meyers' son they had found dead two weeks before, the case that almost drove Jane back into the bottle. She'd really thought they would lose him after she'd come to find Meyers unloading all his grief and rage on her consultant.

But they'd recovered, and new cases piled up. Life kept going – for them, anyway.

Then one night she'd been working late on another case, the body of an old woman that had been washed up on the banks of the Sacramento. Someone had tapped on the door and she'd been expecting Jane, who often swung by on his circuitious routes around the building - presumably to break up those hours of intensive sulking, or whatever he did up there in the Batcave. But she'd looked up to see Meyers in the doorframe, and somehow, she'd known, instantly.

"I'm really sorry about this, Agent Lisbon," he'd said.

Inexplicably, a dark thought crossed her mind; _Was this how it happened for Sam?_

But instead of opening fire, he'd aimed the .45 vaguely in her direction and begun to talk, about his dead son and the man who had killed him, a landscaper he'd hired for the house. His grip was careless, unprofessional; he wavered between aiming dead at her heart and somewhere over her left shoulder. But it didn't take an expert to kill someone with a gun. Lisbon didn't move.

"It's just – there's no happy ending, ever. It's never going to be okay. It's never going to be good again, is it?" He turned his watery, red-rimmed eyes on Lisbon's face, like he trying to read the answers on her face.

Lisbon knew from dealing with Jane that any words she tried to offer would come across as meaningless platitudes. _He wouldn't want you to do this, _or _he's at peace now, _or _I understand how you must be feeling - _not to mention the fatal _I'm so sorry. _He didn't want kindness. And since she couldn't offer him any answers, the least she could do was keep quiet.

She had the Glock in her shoulder holster, but didn't make any move to reach for it yet.

"I just – I don't understand. How am I just supposed to be okay with this? My son. Is dead. How do I just move past that, like … there's nothing, nothing anyone could say, nothing anyone could do. There's _nothing_. And there's never going to be anything, ever again."

"Mr. Meyers ..."

"I just don't understand what we did to deserve this. Tell me what we did wrong. Tell me."

"Mr. Meyers, you asked me to find the man who took your son," she said finally, her voice low and even. "I promised you that the CBI would use its full resources to find that person and bring your son back to you. And that's what we did."

"That's what you did," repeated Meyers dazedly.

"The man who did this to your son is behind bars. He's not ever going to hurt another person. That's the only comfort I know how to give you." Which was more than she'd ever been able to offer Jane.

"You did what you promised," said Mr. Meyers, his hand shaking so that the gun trembled in his grasp. "I guess I - thank you for that."

"Lisbon? Did you want coffee?"

Oh God, Jane. Lisbon exchanged a wordless glance with Meyers, who raised his gun again to point at the place Jane's head would be if he came through.

"No," said Lisbon. She moved slowly, coming out from behind her desk with her hands raised to shoulder height. Palms open, relaxed, offering him her sincerity. She circled him slowly to stand between him and the door. If he was going to shoot her, thought Lisbon, this is when he'd do it. But instead he took a few steps back, just beyond the edge of her reach, and hesitated.

"Please," said Lisbon, trying to keep her voice relaxed and coaxing, instead of desperate. "You don't deserve any of this. Please, please let me help you."

"Help me," Meyers repeated, his blue eyes still fixed on Lisbon's face. She did her best to project an image of stability, something solid he could grab hold of and hold on to.

"All I want to do is help you," she said.

He wavered, obviously unsure.

"Here," she said, carefully pulling out her gun from its holster, holding it exaggeratedly between her thumb and forefinger, barrel-down, to clearly communicate no threat. "Show of good faith." She bent down and slid it carefully across the floor to Meyers' feet, or more precisely, a little too his left. She had a vase of flowers on the right corner of her desk, the last remaining bouquet out of the multitudes Jane had oh-so-inappropriately arranged in her bedroom last time he'd pissed her off. They were pale pink camellias, waxy and gleaming innocently in their heavy ceramic vase.

"Lisbon? Answer me." Jane's voice was sharp through the door.

Meyers was no expert. First he took his eyes off her to stare at the gun at his feet, and then he unwisely bent down to pick it up, clumsily reaching with his free hand and holding his own weapon loosely in the other. It was all the time Lisbon needed to take that one step forward and take up the flowers.

"LISBON!"

Lisbon lifted the vase with both hands, and Meyers didn't even have time to look up before she brought it down with all her strength against his skull.

The next thing she registered was the sound of wood splintering as Jane burst open the door.

**TBC …**


	5. Pink Camellias, pt 2

There was definitely something weird going on with Lisbon.

It wasn't like her to turn down coffee. Or the chance to break up one of Jane's after-hours marathon circuits around the CBI building. This was a prime opportunity to talk about his feelings, and she was passing it up for what, a _conference call? _Pshh.

Anyway, it was 8:00 at night. Who was she conferencing with, Beijing?

No, she was in there with someone and she didn't want him to know. Which of course just made finding out all the more _irrisistable_.

He prowled outside the door, trying to make out words from the murmurs within. No, not business, definitely – whoever the man was, his voice sounded personal. Intimate.

Jane reached for the doorknob and jiggled the handle – still locked. Those municipal deadbolts were tough to pick, although he could do it, if he had time.

Actually, listening closely, Lisbon sounded a little strange - too calm, too deliberate. Who the heck was she talking to?

There was an abrupt silence, and some half-formed instinct made him sharp; "Lisbon? Answer me."

The only response was the sound of something shattering into a million pieces, and suddenly getting through that door became the single most important thing in the world.

He slammed his shoulder - hard - into the middle of the door panel, getting precisely no result. Unless you counted a throbbing pain in the shoulder. Damn, Rigsby always made this look easy.

"LISBON?"

Nothing. Jane was as close as he ever came to panicking. He forced himself to concentrate, tried to picture the last time they'd stormed a suspect's house. Deep breath in. Hold it. Deep breath out -

A mental picture of Cho, holding his weight over his front leg as he aimed at a spot just under the doorknob -

Jane threw his foot forward, caught the toe on the door-plate, and sucked in a breath at the pain that shot upwards from the joint. Damnit, damnit, damnit! WHY didn't he pay more attention when the team did their knuckle-dragging cop-type things?

He squared off against the door again. Lisbon could be dead in there already. _Steady, Patrick. _This time he tried facing sideways and aiming a heel-kick at the same spot; it was a little easier to control, although he struggled to keep his balance. The door didn't open, but he was pretty sure he felt a little give in the wooden frame around the door. Was that the concept here? He tried again, closer to the edge this time, and was certain he felt the frame rattle encouragingly.

Finally giving up any pretext of looking smooth, he turned his back to the door and kicked out like a donkey, aiming all his force though his heel to that spot below the knob.

The trim around the door shattered, throwing up some playful splinters that Jane barely managed to dodge. But the door swung open and Jane limped impatiently forward, hoping to God he hadn't just destroyed Federal property because Lisbon had decided to have dramatic desk-clearing sex. Or, like, dropped a picture frame.

His gaze fell on the body of a man sprawled out on the floor, a dark pool of blood spreading slowly from under his head. Jane had to blink a few times in order to make sense of what he was seeing. Lisbon was kneeling next to the man, doing chest compressions. She had blood on her hands and her face.

Jane had a momentary flashback to Bosco and had to take a deep breath to collect himself.

"Jane, call 911." Lisbon's voice was gritty and wrecked. "Quick."

She was kneeling in a pile of pale pink flowers, which were being crushed into the carpet underfoot. They looked familiar. The man's face was almost unrecognizable, covered with blood, but Jane finally placed him; the father from the Meyers case. What the hell was going on?

He reached past her for the desk phone and dialed.

"Tell them it's a head injury and he just - stopped breathing," said Lisbon, before she turned to administer two rescue breaths. She didn't seem at all surprised by his having burst through the door like Superman. "Tell them to hurry."

He repeated the information to the operator on autopilot, still feeling about six steps behind. He wasn't used to it and didn't like it.

As he talked he watched Lisbon, arms shaking as she resumed the rigorous compressions. It was clear she was exhausted. Her face was white except for her brilliant cheeks, and the dark blood around her lips - how long had she been working while Jane was trying to get through the door?

He gave directions to the operator - he had to struggle to come up with the CBI address, even though he practically lived there - then set the phone down, ignoring the tinny, indignant squawk. "They're on their way," he told her.

Her head came up and she returned to the man's neck, checking for a pulse. Apparently finding nothing, she bent over him again and gave another two breaths.

"Under the desk," she panted, when she was finished. "Fetch me the guns."

Even more confused, Jane bent down to peer where she directed. Sure enough, there was a black handgun lying on its side and what he guessed was Lisbon's own SIG-Sauer. Gingerly, he picked them both up by their handles.

"Put mine back in the desk drawer. Bring me the little one."

"Seriously? Right now?"

"Do it, Jane!"

He pulled himself upright and walked behind the desk, carefully circumventing the pool of blood. Lisbon kept her service piece in the top drawer behind her candy stash, so he quickly wedged it in and backed away. Then he came back to her side, wordlessly offering her the other gun when she paused to reassess.

He watched as she shoved it into her own holster, barely breaking rhythm. Then she slid down to Meyer's chest and kept pumping for him.

"Okay," Lisbon huffed, "Get over here and take over the compressions."

Jane was cautiously optimistic that he remembered how to do that. He crawled uncertainly next to the body, ready to take over when Lisbon was ready to switch off.

"Go."

Hesitantly, he placed his hands where Lisbon's had been. She came to kneel behind him and repositioned them, putting her own bloody fingers over his to show him the force and rhythm required. "Count of thirty," she directed, letting him go to crawl clumsily back to Meyers' head. "Don't slow down or let up on the pressure. It's got to be hard or it won't work."

Jane got to work, as Lisbon prepared to give breaths, her muscles quivering as they recovered from the exertion. He could certainly understand her fatigue; his sore shoulder in particular protested bitterly.

"That's thirty," he said.

Lisbon leaned over, brushing her hair out of her face, and pressed her mouth over Meyer's. Jane watched her chest expand with the force of the air she pushed into him, and it was strange to feel the chest under his hands raise in time. She did it again and then nodded for Jane to resume.

It was mindless, terrifying, exhausting work. They labored in silence, afraid to waste any energy talking, merely glancing at each other as they took turns. Jane was afraid they'd need to switch positions again before the ambulance arrived.

Finally they heard the rattling of heavy equipment coming down the hallway. "In here!" Jane shouted, since Lisbon was doing breaths. "Help us!"

Slowly Lisbon sat up, dropping back on her heels. Jane watched, uncomprehending, as she turned to touch one bloody palm to the corner of her desk, wiping it off on the edge. Then she did it again with her other hand, spreading it around until there was a visible stain. She looked over at him and caught his eye. "Keep going," she rasped.

Eventually they could give way to the brisk confidence of the EMT's, who came clattering in with reassuring urgency. There were two of them, both burly men, and an officer in uniform. Jane moved back to let them work, and when Lisbon was substituted out, he caught her arm and tugged her back against the desk. They huddled together, out of the way.

"He just dropped like a stone," Lisbon whispered. "I didn't think I hit him that hard."

They watched as Meyer was hooked up to a respirator that could be pumped manually, then hoisted up onto a stretcher. Jane heard "depressed skull fracture" as they rattled away.

The policeman had been lingering in the hallway, but finally he approached them with his notebook out. "What happened here?" he asked.

"He tripped on the rug," Lisbon said, her face blank. "Hit his head on the sharp corner of the desk."

The policeman's eyes were unrevealing as he took in the scene. "Is anybody else hurt?"

Jane considered speaking up. For one thing, his foot hurt.

"No." Lisbon shook her head. "It was a freak accident. He was involved in a recent case, came in for an update."

"Alright. " He noted something in his notebook, cast a last eye over the office. "We'll be in touch."

"Is he going to be alright?"

"I heard they got a pulse in the elevator," said the officer non-committally. "Said they'd know more when they got him back to the hospital."

Lisbon sagged back against the desk, and Jane found himself with one arm behind her shoulders, not at all sure how it had gotten there. He waited until they were alone, in the bloody room still scattered with flower petals. "What the hell was that about?" he asked finally.

Lisbon's eyes were glassy and distant, the pupils huge in her face. He took her hand into his own, feeling the rigid muscles under the clammy skin.

"Nothing," said Lisbon, her breathing shallow. "It was nothing."

**TBC**


	6. Red Sky at Night

When the room finally cleared it was startlingly silent, nobody left but Lisbon and Jane.

They sat hunched wordlessly together until Jane looked around in distaste at the bloody carpet, bloody shards of ceramic vase, bloody Lisbon.

"Let's get you up, my dear," he suggested. She looked at up at him blankly. "Alright?"

"Sure," she said absently, accepting his hand to haul herself gracelessly to her feet.

Jane looked her up and down. "Everything okay?"

"Sure," she said again, "I'm fine."

"Of course you are. But how about we get you cleaned up, hmm?"

Lisbon looked down at herself and something flickered across her face. "Gross," she muttered.

"I wasn't going to say anything," said Jane, relieved at this sign of life. He tucked Lisbon's hand under his elbow and escorted her unhurriedly to the ladies bathroom - well, it was after hours - before setting her up in front of the sink. For a moment she stood staring down the drain, until her brain apparently caught up; then she started mechanically cleaning her hands and arms.

"Your face," said Jane, handing her a stack of paper towels. She wet them under the faucet and then wiped her chin; the motion reminded Jane, inappropriately, of his daughter after making a mess of herself, sticky little hands, sticky face. He blinked the image away.

He noted that Lisbon was trembling faintly, and clued in suddenly to the fact that the water was freezing cold. She hadn't turned on the hot faucet. "Alright, all set," he said hastily, reaching around her to turn off the water. "Okay?"

She blinked.

"Lisbon, look at me."

Glassy green eyes drifted up to meet his. Jane felt something tight and burning in his chest - Lisbon shouldn't look like that, vague and hopeless. Lisbon was supposed to be sharp, occasionally irritated, and if Jane had anything to say about it, happy. She should never look like a statue carved from marble, scrubbed-red hands twisting on her thighs.

"You're doing fine, Lis – _Teresa_," said Jane. "There's lots of air in here and you can breathe as much as you want, no problem, you can take a nice deep breath. Let's take some deep breaths, okay? Shall we do that?"

Her gaze skittered over the countertop, not meeting Jane's eyes or her own in the mirror.

"Come on, Lisbon. Hmm? Easy, now."

"Don't," said Lisbon, turning away from him. "Don't do that stuff with me. I don't need you to. I'm fine."

"I know you are," said Jane soothingly. "I know you are." But he didn't take his hand away from where he'd curled it around her wrist, one finger on her pulse point and the other on the back of her hand. He could feel her little kitten pulse lapping at his fingers, but her skin was cool and dry.

"I mean it Jane, don't." She pulled away.

They needed to get away from this cold, shiny room. It was too impersonal, too brisk. He wanted to get someplace with warm colors, natural light; someplace she'd feel safe.

He'd always planned to keep his precious Fortress of Solitude all to himself, but _desperate times, et cetera _… "I promise, Lisbon, I won't do anything you don't want me to. How about we just go upstairs, alright? Let's go upstairs for a little while."

He reached to reclaim her impossibly small hand. "Come along, now." With a light tug, he led her down the hallway, up the stairs. She followed, unresisting, through the attic door and over the dusty floorboards to the window. Jane drew up two folding chairs and sank into one himself, so she'd follow suite. "There, now," he said. "Nice view, isn't it?"

They both looked out over the rooftops of Sacramento, rimmed with silver in the moonlight. There was the faintest hint of orange, just barely visible, at the horizon. Jane doubted it was actually the arrival of dawn – he figured it was probably 10, maybe 10:30 at the latest - most likely it was the floodlights at the Sacramento airport. But it was still kind of pretty.

Then again, for all he knew, Lisbon only saw a whole city full of people that needed their help.

"S'nice," she muttered finally.

Jane reached to drape his free hand across the back of her neck - he could feel her pulse settling, feel her warming slowly. "Now then," he said, keeping his voice mellow and low. "Are you going to tell me what happened in there?"

"So stupid ..." said Lisbon softly, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

"What was stupid?"

"That man, Meyers - thinking it would solve anything, thinking it would make anything better. I think … I think he would have killed me. Or someone else. It was just - inevitable. A weapon has a mind of its own, once you pick it up. It wants to strike. " She shook her head, slowly. "I didn't want to hurt him, I just - had to stop him. "

Jane frowned. "I'm glad you did."

"I wanted to help him," said Lisbon, her voice small and broken. She turned her eyes like searchlights onto Jane's face; "you people, with your revenge - I want to help but you won't ever let me. You just can't see anything but - " she stuttered, took a breath, continued - "but blood."

Jane didn't know what to say. "I know you tried to help him," he said. "You tried your best."

Lisbon closed her eyes. "Yeah," she whispered dully.

"He didn't leave you a choice," he tried again. "You did what you had to."

"But now _look_."

He tightened his grip on her hand, letting up only when he felt the grinding of her bird-like bones. He didn't know the right thing to say, and what he wanted to say didn't even make sense. But finally he tried anyway; "whatever happens, Lisbon, I forgive you. I promise."

She turned her face into his shoulder, and it was unlike her, enough that Jane was uneasy again. He drew an arm across her back and held her close, wishing he could find the root of her fear and pluck it out. Instead he pressed a kiss into her dark hair.

"Don't you know I'll always forgive you."


	7. Coming Up Roses

In the weeks following, Jane noticed a definite cessation in Lisbon's campaign to draw him out. There were no more free lunches; she stopped trying to divert him when she saw him heading for the stairs to the attic. She started taking Van Pelt with her every time she went out into the field ("_She's a young agent, Jane, she needs to gain experience"). _

She started bringing _Cho_ coffee in the morning. Of all people. Once Jane caught them discussing books in the bullpen, and when he tried to join in, she excused himself, leaving him and Cho to discuss Philip Roth without her. _Great male narcissists_, indeed.

There were other signs, too.

When Mashburn sent her a plane ticket to Paris, she didn't throw it straight in the garbage like she usually would (Jane knew, because he occasionally went through her trash). He happened to accidentally overhear her on the phone in her office, telling Walter she would _think about it_.

_Think about it?_

He learned, from reading her emails after she'd left for the day, that she'd been staying in touch with Alan Meyers, the distraught father who almost shot her a week ago. He was out of the hospital, with no apparent brain damage, but no memory of what had happened the day he was injured.

Lisbon was just checking in with him, asking how he and his wife were doing, promising to enroll them in victim's services. She suggested a couple of support groups, some online, some that met in person, for grieving parents.

Jane didn't want to know who she had originally done _that_ research for.

He still didn't understand why she had covered up what happened; why was she protecting him, a man who had made an attempt on her life? Why would she still care about him, even weeks later?

It didn't make sense.

"Looks like we've got to go re-interview the brother on the Rodriguez case," she'd say, hanging up the phone. And when Jane automatically rose to accompany her – "Rigsby, you're with Jane. Try to keep an eye on him."

_Rigsby?_ Now that was just insulting. Purely for revenge, Jane lost him six times in the first half-hour.

Now she was avoiding the breakroom. Previously he could count on a good twenty minutes of quality Lisbon time, while they both laughed at their latest debacle on a case, but suddenly she was always ducking out to the coffee shop down the street, taking her smart phone, using the time for paperwork. The coffee shop was rapidly becoming her own Fortress of Solitude.

She was pulling away from him, he realized.

He hated it.

"You're not even going to come out for case-closed pizza on the Rodriguez case? Be honest, Lisbon, is this some form of depression? Post-traumatic stress?" From his position in her doorway, Jane could make out a winking shard of porcelain trapped in the carpet under her desk. He scowled at it.

"What are you on about now?"

" The pizza. Out there. You. In here."

"What do you want me to say, Jane," said Lisbon, "I've got a desk full of reports to file. Maybe if you stopped getting in so much trouble …" she broke off in the middle of a familiar tirade, shrugged, and then finished more mildly; "Go on and eat, let me know how it is."

He had been waiting impatiently for her to give up on him – hell, he had _asked _her to give up on him, begged her, even - but now that it appeared that she actually had, it felt … strange. Wrong.

* * *

Lisbon stared blankly at the cup of coffee in front of her, watching the swirling steam rise off of it. Jane was still outside the door somewhere, lurking like a creeper, and she got the feeling he'd been breaking into her office after hours again. Great.

She'd been trying for so long to help him, believing that if he could just manage to trust her and the team, he'd turn away from his mad plans for Red John. That he would chose right.

But she'd believed that of Alan Meyers as well – that she could talk him through it, through his grief and his fury, and he would come out the other side. And instead he'd gotten increasingly unpredictable and she'd almost killed him.

That would be Jane, someday. The desperation would be so much sharper, when it was his chest she was pounding on, his lungs that forced air into. His sticky blood on her face.

Just like Meyers, she couldn't let him go his own way. And he would never stop on his own. So she had to make sure she could stop him, if she had to. That meant avoiding the whole charming-Jane-trap and trying to keep her head on straight - no more intimate lunches, no more trips into the field, and definitely no more motherly nagging.

A knock on her door had her glancing up the next moment; it was Alan Meyers, and for a second she was physically paralyzed, glancing helplessly to her gun in the top desk drawer. She'd never reach it on time, and with his back to the door a bullet could pass through him and hit someone in the hall, not good, _not good_.

"Lisbon?" It was Jane, standing in the doorway, his face tense. "I hope you don't mind, I asked Alan to come in this afternoon."

Great. Jane really was trying to kill her – she'd always suspected but never had it confirmed. She cleared her throat. "Of course," she said, rising up out of her chair. "Mr. Meyers, what can I do for you?"

"Could you give us a minute?" Meyers asked Jane, politely. "I'd like to talk to Agent Lisbon alone."

"Uh, maybe that's not a good idea," Jane started, but Lisbon waved him off.

"It's fine," she said, hoping it was true. Still Jane hesitated, shifting on the balls of his feet; then something in Meyer's expression seemed to reassure him, and he nodded, stepping wordlessly out, pulling the door closed behind him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Meyers, Jane can be a little …."

"It's understandable," said the graying man, softly. "He's right to be concerned, given our history."

Lisbon froze in the middle of retaking her seat; he remembered?

"Interesting fellow," Meyers said, looking at the hallway where Jane was no doubt hanging about. "He came to visit me in the hospital, and by the time we were done talking it was like all my memories were just - unlocked. I think I didn't want to remember," he added, his voice soft, "but when I did I realized I had to come talk to you."

She took a deep breath. "Mr. Meyers – "

"I can't explain to you, what it was like," said Meyers slowly. "I – think I was insane for a little while. It was like every dark thought I ever had, every moment of anger, of fear, of grief … like they all just welled up in me and took over." He closed his eyes.

"I … don't feel that way anymore," he added, after a moment. "I just wanted to let you know, that I – I know what you did, and I know you've been covering for me." He shook his head. "I don't understand why you did it, but I wanted to thank you."

Lisbon got the feeling he'd been practicing this speech on the way over. She smiled gently back at him, feeling her body relax in the chair.

"I wanted to shake your hand. Thank you for catching the person that did this to my little boy. And – I'm sorry. I don't think I can express how sorry I am."

"Mr. Meyers, it's alright," she said. "I don't hold anything against you. I don't think it's possible for me to put myself in your shoes, and I wouldn't want to try. I'm just glad that you're alright."

Solemnly, he extended his hand across the table, and Lisbon received it and shook it.

"That's all I wanted to say," he said, turning to go.

"Wait," Lisbon dared, in the instant before he left. "Can I ask you a question?"

He looked surprised, but turned back. "Sure."

"I could have killed you," said Lisbon. "You weren't breathing, I thought you were dead. Are you – still glad, that I stopped you?" She closed her eyes and pushed forward with the question she really wanted to know; "What if it had been _him_, the man who killed your son? Would you still be glad that I stopped you?" She found that she could not meet his eyes as she waited for his answer.

Meyers was quiet for a long spell. "Not at the time," he said. "I wanted – well, I don't know what I wanted. I was … in a very dark place. But now that it's over…" He took a deep breath. "Yes, I'm glad that you stopped me, from throwing the rest of my life away." He seemed suddenly peaceful, calm. "Thank you, Agent Lisbon."

"You're welcome," she whispered, and then watched him walk away.

* * *

"Jane, if I catch you sneaking off to talk to the Senator again, I'm gonna whoop you upside that curly head," Lisbon threatened, her expression thunderous. "Why can't you behave like a sensible human being for two lousy minutes? Just fake it! And for goodness sake, put your seatbelt on!"

They pulled away from the crime scene in a shower of gravel.

"Calm down, Lisbon," said Jane mildly, pulling the belt down over his lap. "This level of stress can't be good for your blood pressure."

"My blood pressure," Lisbon snorted, making a rather perilous left-turn across traffic. "You know what would help my blood pressure? If you'd stop confronting suspects behind my back! I get one more call from the Chief of Staff and I swear, I'm benching your ass for the rest of the month. You can sit back at the CBI and inventory office supplies."

Jane huffed and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, starting out the window at the perfect blue sky. Apparently his plan with Meyers had worked like a charm; Lisbon was harassing him more than ever these past few days. He wasn't completely sure what they'd talked about, but it had certainly flipped the switch.

She'd already threatened him twice that morning, and bullied him into eating an apple on the drive out. _You look like crap, Jane, are you sleeping at all? _

Evidentially she was back in full-on mother bear mode. It was extremely tiresome and it seemed to be getting worse.

Jane leaned back and closed his eyes.

He loved every minute of it.

.

.

**FIN**


End file.
